Chapter 5

5

ANNA

H ow did he know I was Russian?

The words he’d spoken in my native tongue still rang in my ears, rich and fluent, with the kind of confidence that didn’t come from casual study. It wasn’t just that Atlas spoke Russian—he spoke it like he had lived it, like he could slip into the language and make it his own.

That shouldn’t have shaken me, but it did.

I had spent most of my life in the United States, yet my Russian roots were something I carried with me—something quiet, unspoken. My parents had fled Moscow when I was barely two years old, leaving behind everything they had ever known in search of something better.

And they had built better.

My father, Alexey Petrov—or, as the world knew him now, Alexey Peters—had earned his way into one of the most prestigious positions in academia. He was a professor at MIT, specializing in computational neuroscience and artificial intelligence—a field that seemed to teeter on the edge of the future, both thrilling and dangerous. He studied the human brain as if it were an algorithm waiting to be decoded, always fascinated by what made us think, feel, remember.

It was ironic, really.

A man who had left behind a country built on control had spent his entire life unraveling the secrets of control itself.

But my father hadn’t always been a professor. Back in Russia, before opportunity pulled us across the ocean, he had been nothing more than a struggling academic, a brilliant man trapped in a system that saw him as disposable. My mother, Irina, had been the same—an aspiring writer with no future in a country where voices like hers were buried before they ever had the chance to rise.

So they left.

They traded bleak certainty for the unknown, packed up what little they had, and stepped onto a plane bound for America with their only child in tow. I had been too young to remember those first few years in Boston, but I had heard the stories. How they worked around the clock, scraping together a life from scratch. How my father threw himself into research like it was the only language he had left, building his name brick by brick.

And when I started showing promise—real promise—as a musician, it had only solidified everything.

My parents had made the right choice.

Had we stayed in Russia, I would have been molded, owned by the system. There would have been expectations, government sponsorships, a rigid future dictated by forces beyond my control. The pressure would have been suffocating. Instead, I had grown up with freedom. I had been given choices, encouragement, the ability to dream beyond what was assigned to me.

Everything I had, everything I had become, was because of the sacrifices my parents had made.

And now, a man like Atlas—a brute who looked like he had never struggled for anything—spoke my language like it belonged to him?

He couldn’t possibly understand what it meant.

And yet …

I had the overwhelming, bone-deep urge to tell him.

I wanted him to know that my name wasn’t always Anna Peters. That before America, before my parents had shed the past for a future of their own making, I had been Anya Petrov.

I wanted to say it out loud, to hear my own name on my lips somewhere other than in my parents’ home. And I wanted him to be the one who heard it.

The realization struck me like a bolt of lightning—hot, unshakable, reckless.

Desire coiled deep in my belly, thick and undeniable, an aching need I didn’t want to ignore.

I turned, scanning the courtyard. He was leaving.

No.

I wasn’t done with him.

I didn’t think. I just moved.

My pulse pounded as I weaved through the lingering guests, barely aware of the words muttered in passing. My body had already decided for me. I wanted him. I was going to have him.

Atlas had just stepped through one of the shadowed archways leading into the quieter, more secluded halls of Garrison Green when I caught up.

“Wait.”

He turned, expression unreadable, but something flickered in his wise eyes. Something knowing.

I didn’t give him a chance to speak.

My hands tugged into the lapels of his tuxedo jacket, and before I could second-guess myself, I pulled him down to me.

Our mouths collided, heat and urgency and something dangerously raw sparking between us.

Atlas inhaled sharply—surprised, maybe. But he didn’t hesitate.

His hands were on me in an instant, big and rough and undeniable, sliding down my back and pulling me flush against the hard lines of his body. I felt everything. The solid press of his chest against my softer curves, the way his grip tightened as if holding back, the faint scrape of his beard against my skin as he deepened the kiss.

God, I had been right.

That beard—it was pure sin.

The delicious friction sent a sharp pang of need spiraling through me. My breath hitched, my fingers twisting into his jacket, pulling him closer, as if that were even possible.

Atlas groaned—a low, rough sound that sent heat pooling deep in my belly.

One of his hands slid up my back, threading into my hair, tilting my head just so before he took control.

The kiss shifted. It was no longer desperate, but deliberate.

He was tasting me now.

Dragging his lips over mine like he had all the time in the world, as if he were memorizing me, as if he already knew I was going to be his.

I wanted him to know.

I wanted him to understand that for the first time in my life, I wasn’t thinking. I wasn’t planning. I wasn’t calculating my next move.

I was just feeling.

I was just taking.

I was just letting myself want.

I gasped against his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, his fingers tightening in my hair, owning me for this moment.

I let myself be owned.

A sharp gasp cut through the night, shattering the feverish pull between us.

Atlas and I froze.

Somewhere beyond the shadows, a voice murmured—half-scandalized, half-amused. I didn’t turn to see who it was. I didn’t care. My pulse hammered in my throat, my breath coming in unsteady waves as I slowly, reluctantly, pulled back.

Atlas didn’t release me right away.

His hands still gripped my waist, his fingers pressing into the silk of my dress, his chest still rising and falling hard against mine. His lips were slightly parted, as if he hadn’t decided if he wanted to let me go or drag me right back in.

God, I wanted that.

I wanted him.

Instead, I swallowed, took a steadying breath, and carefully peeled my fingers from the lapels of his tuxedo.

Atlas’s eyes burned into mine, his expression unreadable. I could feel the heat between us, still simmering, still dangerous.

I glanced to the side, catching the movement of curious eyes turning away, whispers already starting to ripple through the remaining guests. Not that I gave a damn.

I wanted more.

And I wasn’t done with him yet.

So instead of stepping away, instead of pretending I hadn’t just tasted him, felt him, wanted to crawl inside of him, I reached for his hand.

His massive, calloused, battle-worn hand.

Atlas tensed, like he was still processing what had just happened, but I didn’t wait for him to decide.

I led.

I walked away from the courtyard, away from the lingering crowd, my grip tight and certain as I pulled him with me. He followed, silent but present, his body a shadow against my back.

Through a dimly lit hallway. Past an open-air lounge. Down a set of stairs that led to a quieter part of Garrison Green—a semi-private garden, where vines twisted along stone walls and a single marble bench rested beneath the soft glow of a flickering lantern.

It wasn’t completely hidden.

Someone could stumble upon us.

For some reason, I didn’t care.

I turned, my back pressing against the cool stone as I pulled him into the shadows with me.

Atlas braced his hands on either side of my head, caging me in, his massive frame crowding mine, his body heat wrapping around me.

“This isn’t right,” he rumbled, his voice so low and deep it vibrated against my skin.

I arched a brow, refusing to shrink beneath his intensity. “And yet, here we are.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, his eyes searching my face.

I already knew what he would find.

Desperation.

Desire.

Determination.

I wasn’t going to let him hesitate.

“Anna,” he started, his voice rough, almost strained.

I wasn’t in the mood for hesitation.

I slid my hands up his chest—over solid muscle, over the thunderous heartbeat beneath—until I reached his jaw, his beard.

I brushed my thumbs over the rough bristle of it, imagining how it would feel somewhere else.

His breath hitched.

“You want this,” I whispered.

His jaw tightened beneath my fingers. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

A dark laugh slipped from me, low and wicked. So unlike me.

“Oh, but I do.”

I slid my hands lower, over his chest, over the tight pull of his abs, until I found the waistband of his slacks.

Atlas grabbed my wrists.

Not hard. Not demanding. But like he was giving himself one last chance to walk away.

“I’m not gentle,” he warned, his voice a rough, uneven growl.

I leaned in, my lips just grazing his jaw. “Good.”

He sucked in a sharp breath.

I moved my hands again—slow, deliberate—tugging his shirt from where it was tucked neatly into his pants.

His control snapped.

His mouth was on mine, hard and hungry, his hands shoving up my dress, gripping my thighs, lifting me. I barely had time to gasp before I was pinned against the stone wall, my legs wrapping around his waist, his body anchoring me in place.

I felt everything.

The hard press of him between my thighs. The rasp of his beard against my neck as his lips traveled lower, nipping, claiming, possessing.

His hands were everywhere.

Dragging up my thighs, gripping my hips, pressing me into him like he needed me closer.

And I wanted it. I wanted it so badly I was already shaking.

“Make me forget,” I whispered, my fingers twisting into his hair. “Make me forget he ever existed.”

Atlas let out a low, primal sound.

And then he did exactly that.

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